


The Fine Lines Between Good and Evil

by Trivelino



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Espionage, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 10:46:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trivelino/pseuds/Trivelino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak is a CIA operative working as part of a top secrete unit of highly trained assassins. His job is simple: maintain the freedom of his nation by any means possible, no questions asked. No questions, that is, until an important figure from his past returns and forces him to reflect on the nature of his work. Now, with time running out, Castiel must choose something to stand for. Will he be able to grasp at fine lines that divide good and evil and make the right choices? Can he find room for love in this equation?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unexpected Visitors

**Author's Note:**

> First fic I'm posting! So excited!  
> Are you excited? I'm excited. 
> 
> So, this fic is truly slow build, bare with me, it's like literally going to be novel length  
> and there is like no Dean in some of these early chapters.  
> but it will be worth it, I so promise! 
> 
> Also I love criticisms but please make them friendly ;)  
> Also Also I'm really bad with this tagging thing, please let me know if you feel another tag would be appropriate.  
> Your the best! K thanks buhbye!

_“The fact is that we have no way of knowing if the person who we think we are is at the core of our being. Are you a decent girl with the potential to someday become and evil monster, or are you an evil monster that thinks it's a decent girl?"_  
  
 _"Wouldn't I know which one I was?"_  
  
 _"Good God, no. The lies we tell other people are nothing to the lies we tell ourselves.”_

  
_―[Derek Landy](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/165168.Derek_Landy), [Death Bringer](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/15121049) _

 

Castiel is small, the smallest in his unit, which is fine by him. He has learned to use his lithe body and short stature to become invisible, inconspicuous, and unassuming; all underutilized traits in his line of work these days. A shame really, considering small definitely has its merits. Such as now, for example.

He stands, leaned against the concrete of a shabby and seemingly abandoned building in the warehouse district of Ostrava, Czech Republic. His trench coat bellowing in the cool fall wind, tie twisting unattractively, and oversized suit sticking to him in odd places as the breeze hugs his body. A cigarette dangles from between his lips and as he inhales the crisp smoke the burn is followed by the bitter taste of Ostrava’s polluted air.

Castiel hates this job. Up until two months ago he was situated at an isolated base in Serbia that was disguised as a struggling grain farm, intercepting signals from a nearby technical institution suspected of aiding in the building of WMDs. This was intended as a punishment for… an earlier infraction.

Surprisingly, Castiel had found himself enjoying the solitude of the desolate area. Especially in the winter months when the vast and snowy wasteland surrounding his cottage left him with no choice but to sit by the fire for hours on end, reading and re-reading the few classics he had brought amongst his limited supplies and keeping one ear sharply tuned to his receiver.

It was… meditative.

Now though… well, now he’s stuck in the middle of a noxious smelling urban landfill of a city, trying to blend in amongst the various shady creatures seeking to indulge their many vices in the safety of the darkness while he waits for his intended victim to emerge from the dungeon-like basement of the adjacent warehouse. A bottling factory turned night club simply called ‘The Place’.

Pulling the cigarette from between his lips, he flicks it onto the street before pulling out the pack and retrieving another.

Unfortunately, this is when the large warehouse doors across the street begins to open. With a sigh, he tucks the cigarette behind his ear and checks his watch.

4:45 am.

The hour is past that of the designating closing time for establishments which serve alcohol within the city, but Castiel understands that such establishments are also willing to… bend the rules… for high class patrons. Patrons such as Pamela.

 **Pamela: American. Caucasian. Early thirties. Civilian status.** But with a reputation for knowing things. Specifically top secrete things. The kind only released on a NTK basis.

Unfortunately, although Pamela is rife with information, she is found severely lacking in the loyalty department; known to be willing to sell her knowledge to anyone who can guarantee her safety and a comfortable lifestyle.

It’s a shame the CIA doesn’t bargain, really.

Castiel reaches down to the paper bag perched against the wall near his left leg, reaches in, and grabs a large bottle of whisky. He takes a deep swig from the bottle, savoring the warm burn of the smoky liquid as it travels down his esophagus. Then, from the safety of the shadows, he proceeds to drench the front of his pristine white dress shirt with the remainder of the amber drink; allowing it to run down his arms and hands, which he promptly runs through his hair. It’s time to go to work.

~ ~ ~

Everyone assumes that Pamela enjoys the nightlife, but in reality she finds the lifestyle quite dull. She’s getting too old to properly enjoy the loud thrum of music and the sway of hundreds of intoxicated bodies like she had in her twenties. However, she can’t deny her need for the privacy that comes with spending time in large crowds.

The nightclub provides a consistent noise that ensures a message never reaches anyone but its intended recipient. The legitimate agencies tend stay out of the clubs as well. Not only to avoid the dramatics of committing a murder in such a public space, but also because they are rarely afforded access considering her favorite establishments are most often owned by… less legitimate organizations.

As for said illegitimate groups, well, they prefer bribery over threats. She’s more useful to them alive than dead. This particular night she is meeting with some… old friends…from Russia. Friends who, although insistent they are not military, wish to negotiate the expenses required to obtain a flash drive containing information on a top secrete project being undertaken by the CIA.

Russians and Americans… it’s nothing but a dick measuring contest at this point, really.

Of course Pamela never leaves the house without protection, and meetings with friends makes for no exception. Recently, she has been keeping the company of three guns for hire from a little organization that has vowed to ensure her safety since she helped to expose some clients that were unwilling to settle their bills. And even with a thick layer of muscle between her and her Russian comrades, she takes the extra precaution of completing the transaction on a separate date; leaving the drive in a location only she can access until a price is determined and the details are sorted.

As of now the details are sorted. A cool ten mill agreed upon. The shots are flowing in celebration of a deal gone exceedingly well. Pamela doesn’t usually drink, she prefers to keep a sharp mind, but the Russians take their vodka very seriously and she knows that to pass on the offer would be a great show of disrespect.

By the time the masses are herded out of ‘The Place’ Pamela is well past tipsy. Her lips are numb and her cheeks warm and rosy. She is in a rare good spirit. Everyone around the table is in a favorable mood and she is ten million dollars wealthier than this morning.The owner of ‘The Place’ allows her and her party to stay until the crowds have cleared from outside, understanding the sensitive nature of her business. When she does leave, it is behind the group of her Russian friends; with one of her guards at her front and two behind. She thinks the whole parade of them must look ridiculous.

The crisp air of the outside world makes her dizzy, and the city lights are blurry and warm; it makes her smile. She’s content and tired, mind wandering around a fantasy of curling up in the warm comforter on her California king sized bed.

This is when she hears the commotion.

A drunk man has run into the Russians, the poor soul.

He’s a mess. Definitely not a party goer from ‘The Place’. He’s a scrawny, shell of a man in a worn out trench coat and two day old stubble. Most likely a white collar who just lost his job and decided to celebrate in a gutter, if the smell of him is anything to go by.

He sways harshly as one of the Russian men shoves him and threatens some sort of unconventional punishment for getting in their way.The man doesn’t seem conscious enough to understand the predicament he is in.

Once he regains his footing, he gazes over Pamela’s entourage questioningly, stare settling on her with struggling focus. His eyes are immaculately blue, but endlessly sad. Pamela can’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy towards the bum, and it must show in her face because he addresses her directly when begging meekly for some change.

As her entourage moves toward taking action against the man, she barks out

“Wait.”

The group stops in their tracks, assessing Pamela’s odd request in confusion.

Slowly, as if not to disturb the calm she created, she gently pushes past the group to get a better look at the bum; pulling out one thousand Koruna in the process.

The alcohol is making her feel charitable, and it’s the least she can offer.

Up close, he is so very small. Slim to the point of malnourishment. Pathetic looking really, but handsome in an unconventional way. It’s horrible to think of what the men she is with would be able to do to him if given the chance.

She places a hand on his shoulder to further steady the drunk, and with the other she reaches out to give him the money. He hesitates for a second before taking it from her hand, simultaneously reaching up to place a soft hand of his own at the top of her bicep.

With a light squeeze, and the utmost sincerity in those brilliant blue eyes, he whispers

“Thank you.”

And with that he is stumbling away, hopefully in the direction of a coffee shop in order to sober up and then off to a home and a waiting family. One can hope.

Pamela is quickly ushered into a waiting vehicle, giving her no time to elaborate on the brief exchange.

It isn’t until she is sitting in the back of the black unmarked SUV with her head leaned against the window and her buzz slowly wearing off, that she begins to think about the events of the night.

She goes over the arranged drop process, scheduled for tomorrow in Prague at 3:00pm, where a man will be waiting to pose as her love interest in a small secluded internet café she enjoys visiting while in the city.

She thinks about the money; what she will do with it, what she will be able to accomplish. Maybe, for once, she will be able to do something unequivocally good for the world instead of traveling through the moral purgatory of the monsters who run it. Help children maybe.

It’s a nice thought.

It isn’t until she reaches her apartment that she thinks about the unfortunate man outside of ‘The Place’.

It’s later yet when it finally dawns on her that the bum had whispered his delicate ‘thank you’ in a perfect American accent.

In fact, it happens while she’s lying in bed; instinctively skimming her hand over her arm to the spot where the man had placed his own. She feels a slight sting at the pressure.

Pamela lets out a deep breath and a small but honest chuckle. She imagines the fragile man who has caused her demise, and the bright blue eyes that seemingly held him together.

_What an unlikely reaper_

~ ~ ~

Castiel abandons the syringe, along with the coat and the whisky drenched shirt in a disposal bin on the way back to the condo he has been designated. The overwhelming smell of the alcohol wafting from the garments is upsetting his stomach.

It has nothing to do with the task he just preformed.

Honestly.

Now he is left donning slacks and the long sleeved black under armour he is more accustom wearing during ‘hit’ missions. The smell of whisky is still lingering, but is now combined with a more tolerable mix of sweat and cigarette smoke.

He longs for the shower.

He doesn’t reach his building until half past six, taking a scenic route through the city for security purposes.

Once inside he takes the stairs to his place on the 8th floor, unwilling to risk being caught in an elevator. Although he’s quite positive the hit went down without a hitch, there is a miniscule chance that he is being followed by a small group of very angry Russians who are now short a flash drive.

The condo is fitted with a security keypad, but Castiel still does a thorough check of the seams of the door before entering the password.

Once inside he does a full sweep of the area; ensuring there are no signs of forced entry at the windows or balcony door, and that nothing is out of place.

Satisfied with the state of his dwelling, he allows himself an iota of relief to travel through his body.

He walks over to an extravagant sound system that is mounted into the wall alongside the large 60” flat screen television that he has never bothered to watch. He turns on the system and finally allows himself the luxury relaxation as the soothing sound of Chopin’s Nocturne Op.9 No.1 floods the room.

 

Upon entering the washroom, Castiel turns the shower on high and lets the steam swirl around the small space while he empties his pockets of his cigarettes, lighter, and the money he had taken from Pamela.

He then removes his Colt M45A1 from the back of his pants leaves it on the sink and within reach of the shower.

Just in case.

After removing the remaining of his whiskey drenched articles, he steps into the stall; allowing the hot water to slowly relieve the tension from his muscles. The pulse of the droplets on his shoulders and his neck lull him into a fog of blissful emptyness.

Leaning his head against the tiles of the shower wall, he closes his eyes and begins to hum.

~ ~ ~

Castiel isn’t sure exactly how long he spends inside the shower, but as he steps out he notes that it has been long enough for someone to have taken his pistol and leave him a smiley face drawing in the steam of the bathroom mirror.

It’s a recognizable calling card, which settles his nerves... but only slightly.

With a roll of his eyes and an irritated huff of breath Castiel exits the washroom and enters the living area to confront his intruder; wrapping a towel around his waist as he goes.

Sitting in one of the overstuffed black leather couches with Castiel’s Colt twirling effortlessly in his hands is a young man with emerald green eyes and Cheshire cat grin.

“Heya Cas”

He winks and sets down the pistol on the end table and grabbing a Steuben of Canadian Club which he must have helped himself to while Castiel was in the shower. He downs the rest of the drink with a content sight.

“It’s been a while.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WMD= Weapons of mass destruction  
> NTK= Need to know  
> Koruna= Czech currency. With the exchange rate, she actually gave Cas a little under $100.  
> Steuben= A (now closed) glassware company that is often mentioned on Archer (a show about espionage) when they drink whiskey/bourbon. I thought it entertaining to add. 
> 
> Note: I love Chopin. I think canonical Cas would listen to Chopin, especially the nocturnes. His brothers would prefer the the loud roar of Beethoven's or Mozart's orchestras, but Cas would be content with the romanticism of Chopin's lone piano. 
> 
> Link to the Chopin song playing while Cas is in the shower - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZtIW2r1EalM&list=RD02vJpAIOFN5WQ
> 
> Note: I understand that Cas' gun isn't standard, that it is a close quarters combat gun, and that it's not ideal for concealing during a hit mission. But I also like to think Cas likes to do things his own way - and there is also some nostalgia attached to the colt that will be explored later. 
> 
> Link to Cas' Colt- http://www.colt.com/ColtLawEnforcement/Products/ColtM1070CQBPM45A1.aspx


	2. The Smallest Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel has a conversation that changes his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very dialog heavy chapter, like wow.  
> Enjoy!  
> ~ ~ ~

His heart quickens as adrenalin fills his body. Even though he knew who to expect, he finds himself suddenly unprepared to see the face in front of him. The anxiety hits him hard, affects him more than the mission he just completed, more than any mission.

**Dean Winchester. Ex CIA. Hit for hire. Designation: Extremely Dangerous. Orders to kill on sight.**

Dean Winchester. His best, and only, friend.

“Hello Dean.”

He notices Dean’s face fall momentarily at the formality of the greeting, but he quickly resumes his patented charming façade.

Castiel watches self-consciously as Dean skims his eyes over his bare torso, concern apparent in his eyes even though his smile never wavers.

“You’ve gotten skinnier… if that’s even possible” he quips.

Castiel frowns and instinctively grasps at the towel around his waist, clenching it tighter. He can feel his body begin to shake, his knees getting weaker, and his head spinning.

“What do you want Dean?”

He snaps, trying to regain his bearings.

Dean frowns again, brows knitting and worry apparent on his face.

“Right to business then is it?” he huffs, not bothering to plaster on his fake grin as he continues.

His brow softens and he looks around the room contemplatively, trying to find the right place to start.

“Pam was under my protection, you know…” he begins.

“So you’re here to exact revenge” Castiel interrupts.

“No… no Cas.” Dean says surprised, looking at Castiel with something like affection in his eyes.

He runs a hand through his short, spikey hair, and with a sigh he tries to start again.

“Pamela wasn’t a bad person Cas. She…”

“She was stealing top secret information from the CIA Dean, she was a liability”

“SHE WANTED TO HELP PEOPLE CAS, SHE WAS DOING THE ONLY THING SHE KNEW HOW! SHE…”

“I DON’T CARE DEAN! ...” He shouts back before catching his temper and continuing at a more reasonable volume.

“…I don’t want to know about Pamela, or her goals. I had a mission Dean, and I’ve completed it. End of story.”

Dean doesn’t resume his argument at that. To Castiel’s surprise he doesn’t even bother to respond. Instead, a look of exhaustion mars his face as he looks down, placing his face in his hands and huffing out a defeated laugh.

“Is that all Dean?” Castiel answers in response to the thick silence. Perhaps a little too soft and sympathetic for his own liking.

He can’t afford to be sympathetic.

Dean lifts his head at this, the tiredness that permeates his body so obviously apparent now that he has dropped his act.

The charm, the anger… just some of the many masks of Dean Winchester.

“You really believe your doin’ good, dontcha Cas?” He says softly; something between bewilderment and wonder in his expression.

Castiel contemplates this for a moment before answering.

“Yes, Dean. I believe that the safety of the entire nation is worth the lives of a few.” He says evenly and with confidence. Even though he is feeling anything but.

“But what about when it isn’t? Cas? What about when it’s not worth it anymore?”

He looks at Dean with confusion. He doesn’t understand the question, really.

He thinks he should ask for an example. He wants Dean to provide him with some situation where his duty towards his country would no longer be his top priority. He wants to understand Dean’s struggles, see things from Dean’s perspective…

He wants to know why he left the organization… why Dean left him…

But he doesn’t get the chance, because Dean isn’t looking for him to reply. He is already lifting himself out of the cushy chair and onto his feet, placing a small card on the table end table as he picks up Castiel’s colt.

“I’m leaving you a number Cas. Ya know, for when it’s no longer worth it.”

At that, he turns to Castiel and tosses him the gun, leaving Castiel struggling to catch the weapon and dropping his towel in the process. His face heats as he realizes he is now fully exposed to his friend.

Dean lets out a low whistle, Cheshire grin overtaking his face once again.

“See ya Cas” he says with another wink, stepping towards Castiel. 

“I… I could kill, you know. I’m supposed to kill you.” Castiel stutters out. Attempting to take the attention away from the fact that he’s full frontal. 

“Do it Cas, I dare you.” Dean chimes confidently as he walks past the naked man.

Castiel grips the colt until his knuckles are white, his finger on the trigger. But can’t bring himself to turn around; frozen in his spot as he hears the front door open and click closed behind him.

The sound of Chopin is still drifting in the room around him.

~ ~ ~

“Castiel, so nice to see you, I hear the mission went well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good… Good.”

He pauses to take a sip of his water.

“But this isn’t what I’ve brought you here for. Do you know why you’re here?”

“No sir.”

“Hmmmm…”

He is quiet for a moment.

“I have heard that one Dean Winchester was seen around Ostrava around the time of your mission. You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you Castiel?”

“… No sir.”

“Good… Good. Because you would tell me if you had seen him, right Castiel?”

“Yes sir, of course sir.”

He stalls again, looking out the window of the high-rise.

“Right. So the card that was found with your personal effects, that must be outdated. An heirloom perhaps?”

“I, uh, I’m not sure what you are talking about sir.”

“No, I’m sure you do not Castiel.”

He taps his pen against his desk a few times before continuing

“Regardless, I have a new mission for you…”

He sighs

“This mission is extraordinarily sensitive in nature, Castiel. You are to be briefed in private, your unit will have no knowledge of the mission until they are needed, and for the majority of this mission you will be working independently of both other field agents as well as tech. … Please use your utmost discretion.”

“Yes sir, I thank you for the opportunity sir.”

“I should hope so Castiel. After your previous… incident, we have been worried about your performance. We would hate to lose you.”

Castiel frowns at this.

“I assure you sir, there is no need to worry.”

“Good…Good. Then think of this as your redemption. Complete this mission Castiel, and we will consider all earlier infractions… forgotten."

“Yes sir. Is that all?”

“That is all” he states as he raises himself out of his chair.

Castiel follows, standing and extending his hand to the outreached one of his superior, bracing it in a firm handshake.

“Perfect. Have a good day Castiel.”

“Thank you, you as well Michael.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woosh. What a ride. Don't think there is any terminology to be defined this time! 
> 
> So this is probably going to be my shortest chapter, that is how I was able to update so quickly. 
> 
> But I'm loving writing this so I'm going to predict updates once a week on Wednesdays. 
> 
> However, I'm also writing term papers this month so I don't want to make any promises. 
> 
> Just hold on for me, pretty please <3


End file.
